


Maybe, just maybe, he should call Bruce...Nah.

by memearchive



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Finally. A good fucking tag., Gen, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jason Todd is Red Hood, One Shot, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Raped Dick Grayson, That feels implied but okay, Tim Drake is Robin, Trauma, Yeah layer it all on fellas. Throw it all in there. It's all there., Yeah we back at it again folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:14:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29227560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memearchive/pseuds/memearchive
Summary: "Yeah, 34 deaths, 35 including Blockbuster, is a lot. Yeah, his home and everything he owns is gone. Yeah, his safehouses and everything in those are all ash, too. Yeah, yeah, yeah, he gets it- but he's dealt with loss before, and maybe 34 is a bit high, and maybe he could have stopped Tarantula, but he's never been like this before. Not even after his parents' deaths, and that's a terrifying thought.Was this really the thing that broke him?"
Relationships: Catalina Flores/Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 268





	Maybe, just maybe, he should call Bruce...Nah.

Nightwing blinks, and then a rush of wind sends shivers up his spine.

His suit is tossed at him, and he catches it.

He stands once dressed, panting lightly and glancing around. Catalina stands nearby, redoing her armour and stretching. 

Then, his blood runs cold- or maybe it's hot- and he touches his comm. Thankfully, it's off. He doesn't know what he'd do if it were on for...all that.

The smoke still invades his nostrils, and he wonders if he'll be able to wash the night away. Probably not.

Catalina says something, and Nightwing blinks, turning to her, "Huh?"

She laughs, smiling at him as his body wasn't burning.

"I said I have to go," She says, approaching him and running her hands down his arms, "Let's do this again, some time, hm?"

He tries for a grin, but his face feels heavy, and then he looks away, giving her time to vanish behind him.

Once alone, Nightwing holds a gloved hand up and watches it shake. He must be fatigued. It's been a long night...

He contemplates calling Bruce. He doesn't know how to face him now, though. His city is in shambles; 34 of deaths _on his watch_. Not to mention Blockbuster. He didn't even move to help. 

No, he can't call Bruce. Bruce would turn him away, denounce him and order him to _get the hell out of my city!_ and then he'd have to face _those_ emotions all over again.

He could call Jason. No, no Jason doesn't need another burden.

Nightwing flips to the ground with a light grapple line to keep his ankles intact. He makes a quick decision, and then makes his way to the closest closed clothes shop, which is far too many similar sounding words for one sentence, and that's coming from him.

In all honesty, Nightwing would make an _amazing_ villain if he had to. Though, he proved that as Renegade and Red X already, but still. Shitty security, barely locked doors and the worst he'd come up against is a 9mm Luger. Logically? He'd be a damn fine crook.

He stuffs his costume into a drawstring bag with a logo he doesn't recognize, pulling on a Green Lantern graphic tee - because he has a sense of humour - and a oversized hoodie since he'd rather not freeze to death. 

It's only once he's fully dressed that it hits him that he doesn't have any remaining possessions. He's never been overly materialistic, but it still... _hurts_.

He's all on his own again, just like after he quit, just like after he got fired.

Nightwing wanders the streets of Blüdhaven with exhaustion on his limbs. At least he still has his safehouses, he thinks, only to remember to explosions that looked measly in comparison to his entire complex being blown to smithereens. Well.

He really is on his own.

Nightwing lies there, still; hot while cold, blind to the burning in his eyes and deaf to the ringing in his ears. For a moment, he just is. And then the next moment comes along, and he's stabbed by pain.

He rolls over on the rooftop, arching his back in an attempt at a relieving stretch, but his burns scream in protest. He lets out a pathetic noise, scrambling for his bag to cushion his searing skull.

Maybe he _should_ call someone.

He stands unsteadily, his body burning up and down, down, _down_. It makes him grimace and he wonders how the hell he's going to survive. What's his first move, anyway?

No clothes, no money, no food and no job because he got fired weeks ago and decided he'd be fine as strictly-superhero for a bit. Karma is a bitch, apparently.

Nightwing lets out a groan as he grabs at his comm, since his phone was in the clothes he _changed out of_ before the explosion. AKA, his phone can be sold for scrap metal, if he's lucky enough to find the right piece.

"Jay, come in," Nightwing croaks, rubbing his aching throat and grimacing. Why do his eyes hurt? "Jay, do you copy?"

"On homework? Never," Jason replies, blandly. He doesn't sound too tired, so he either woke up early, or woke up late yesterday, but the joke is boring as shit, so he'd say the latter, "Early rise, Wing?" He asks, "What kinda case takes place at 4 in the morning?"

"The fun kind," He grumbles, "Jay, can I crash at your place for a bit?"

"Wonderful, just what I need, deadbeat cop brother sleeping on my couch,"

"Wow, way to make a guy feel appreciated," Nightwing grunts, glancing around the rooftop and wondering how the hell he's gonna make it to Gotham. Maybe he'll peruse that _criminal_ route for some money. Just this once.

Jason huffs, but doesn't sound entirely opposed. Because as much as he plays the bad guy, Jason has not once denied Nightwing a stay. Brothers, and all that, as he would say.

"Fine, but don't expect me to do your laundry," Which is the Jason way of saying _are you okay?_

"Not much laundry to do, anyway," Nightwing says, before clicking his comm off. He takes the long way off the roof, metal clanging beneath his feet and then the scent of garbage assaulting him. It's at that moment that his migraine decides to crescendo, and he wonders _what_ exactly he did to deserve this.

It's a long walk, and he's running on an hours sleep and no nourishment. 

He might steal a car.

Dick is fast asleep on his couch when Jason gets home, and he's honestly surprised. He wasn't serious on the whole couch bit. Dick usually just steals his bed, and then he just has to deal with that. 

"Evening, asshole," He greets, under his breath. A tired Nightwing is a cranky Nightwing, and a cranky Nightwing puts the dick in Dick.

Jason puts his helmet down silently, frowning at the smell...like smoke and sweat. He ventures into the kitchen, relieved to find it solid and unmaimed by his mad brother's cooking attempts. He's not horrible, but that doesn't mean he necessarily good at anything other than cereal and breakfast foods.

Jason downs half a bottle of water before tossing it onto the counter. He's hungry.

He glances over at Dick, but, he's asleep, so...If he wants food he'll make his own food, he decides, because he has zero- absolutely no obligation to help Dick. For all he knows, he's already eaten. It'd explain the smell.

So, Jason, settles, pulling out leftovers and two plates, he will not make Dick dinner.

God- fucking- dammit.

He places the plate on the coffee table and stretches out in the world's most comfortable armchair. He watches Dick as he eats, noticing how pale he looks, and kicks the blanket off the back of the couch onto him. Idiot.

Now that he thinks about, because he has not thought about earlier, Dick did sound out of it on comms. And if he's wearing civvies, why was he using his comm anyway? Jason barely heard it from his bathroom.

Jason finishes his dinner and places the plate on the coffee table, sighing before finally giving in to his first instinct.

He carefully pulls the blanket aside, brushing Dick's hair away and inspecting his head. Bruises, a burn under his hairline and a gash on his jaw. His face looks red except for the markings of his mask. Must have been a fire then. Another viable explanation for the _smoke_.

He lightly tugs away Dick's hoodie, noticing bruises along his neck. Gross.

He's only stopped for furthering his inspection by Dick stirring, eyes fluttering beneath lids and he breathes out sharply.

"You're fine, you're fine," Jason murmurs, and Dick opens his eyes. For a second, he looks terrified, eyes unfocused and lost in a way that makes Jason's heart still- and then he's back, and he pants.

"Jay?"

"I'm here," he reassures, and frowns, trying to find the source of this. He sounded far more... _stable_ over comms, but then again, it's been nearly a day since then, so who knows what's happened since then? "Are you hurt?"

Dick shakes his head, pushing Jason's chest until he's lying flat on the couch again, Jason's hands releasing him.

"C'mon, talk to me," He tries, but Dick is a stubborn bastard, and he just grimaces, shaking his head.

"Tired, tha's all," He slurs, shutting his eyes and pulling the blanket over him again. Then, though, he groans, throwing it off and tearing his hoodie off. Jason doesn't recognize the clothes, and then he's tugging at the tee until his chest is bare, and Jason grimaces.

Burns and bruises litter the scarred skin and he's sweating, _still_ , evidently, and Jason touches his arm to steady him, "Relax, you're fine," He tells him, "You're fine."

And then Dick flinches, and Jason lets go. Okay. That's...different. New.

What the hell is he supposed to do with that?

"Sorry," Dick whispers, "Sorry," standing up and stuttering away. He covers his chest but scratches at the skin.

Jason watches with terrified eyes, but he's determined to fix this without Bruce-intervention.

"Breathe, Dick," He orders, "You're fine."

He looks at him with startled eyes, and then grabs at the desk behind him, eyes darting back before looking at Jason again.

They stand apart, the younger's hands held up in a placating gesture while Dick breathes. Together, they wordlessly go through a set of breathing exercises, something Bruce taught them both, apparently, and something that Jason hates that he still uses. It works, okay? It works.

"Sorry," Dick repeats, this time more steadily, "That- that was- sorry."

"Relax," Jason replies, "You good?"

"Yeah. Yeah, just a- just got startled."

"I could tell," He drawls, approaching carefully, "Wanna tell me what happened, or do I have to call Bruce?" It's an empty threat, they both know he'd rather die again then call the Batman for _anything_ , but Dick looks genuinely scared for .5 seconds.

"Nothing," he lies up his ass and out through his teeth, "I'm good, really, Jay."

"You look like a Halloween costume Two-Face. Talk to me." Dick touches his face, and Jason grabs his arm, only stuttering at another flinch before pulling his hand away, "I'm _joking_." He insists, and Dick's eyes are filled with so much barely concealed confusion that he wonders if he needs a doctor. Is this more than a concussion and some burns? Most likely.

"I- there was an explosion," He finally admits, "A few, but the one...Jay, so many people..."

"I'm sorry," he says, trying to force another half to the half-assed tone and it seems to work enough.

"I wasn't _in_ it, but I was close enough. My safehouses are gone, too- and I just- didn't wan' Bruce to see me," He gestures vaguely at himself, "Like this."

Jason watches his face, marks his tone and his butchered voice. Dick's not lying, at least, but he's missing _something_. Something vital. Something that could explain his trembling hands and blown pupils.

"Your safehouses? Who?" He pushes, and Dick makes a face.

"Blockbuster," He says, weakly, and Jason is already planning a fix when he adds, "'s fine, though. He's, uh...He's dead."

Jason raises an eyebrow. Dick doesn't kill. _Dick_ doesn't _kill_.

"How?"

He shrugs, "Tarantula. She was there, she was helping, I guess, but then she- uh. She shot him...Don't tell Bruce."

"I won't." Of course Dick would get all freaked by being in the same vicinity of a man that got killed, not even by him. Jason would roll his eyes, but he supposes his brother is probably more wracked by the other deaths, and doesn't say anything. He can be rude, but he'd never be that rude, "You smell like shit." He changes the subject, "Go take a shower, it's-"

"To the right, yeah, I know," Dick waves a hand and Jason mutters something along the lines of _freeloader_ while Dick flips him off.

Well, Dick seems better now that that's off his chest.

Jason rolls his shoulders and heads to his bedroom. He's not shocked when Dick collapses on the other side, a wall of pillows separating them.

He'll be fine.

Nightwing sits at the kitchen table, weakly shoving calories into his gob in hopes of gaining some semblance of energy. Jason comes out of his room shortly after, rubbing his eyes and staring at him for a second before continuing in.

"You're out of cereal," Nightwing comments, and Jason glares at him.

"I never have cereal," He tells him.

"Maybe you should," He decides, but eats his cinnamon-drenched toast instead. It's not waffles, or pancakes, _or_ cereal, but it'll do.

"You didn't eat last night," Jason says, like a mother hen, and Nightwing is still reeling over the knowledge that- out of the two of them- it's _Jason_ that's the worry-wart. Side effects of his childhood, probably.

"Was a bit busy showering and sleeping,"

"You could have eaten," Jason replies, and starts cooking, like some kind of mature adult. He makes pancakes, and shoves a plate at Nightwing, and he grins at him. Jason rolls his eyes.

They eat in relative silence, the sound of the sizzling and metal on glass being the only real noises. Nightwing gets lost in thought, memories of being 10 and sitting at the kitchen counter at the Manor filling his mind.

"You good?"

Nightwing looks up, and then relaxes.

"Yeah, yeah, just tired, 's all," He says, and yet Jason still looks at him like he's a lying idiot, "Jay, really," he insists.

"Whatever," He grunts, grabbing his plates and shoving them onto what must be his designated _dirty dishes_ portion of the counter. Everyone has one.

That's when Nightwing is hit by the realisation that _he does not have a home, anymore_. It's not like he forgot, but it just...felt surreal, until now, and it still feels weird. He swallows, brushing through his hair to comfort himself, and then he looks up and says, "You heading out?"

"Yeah. Why, gonna throw a party?" Jason asks, voice getting louder as he heads into his bedroom.

"You know me so well," He drawls, "No, I just- can I stay here a bit longer?"

Jason reappears a few moments later, the silence deafening as he waits for him to demand an answer Nightwing _doesn't have_ , to deny him, to send him away, something.

When he's silent, Nightwing goes on, "-'s just, I mean, I guess I'm a bit more rattled than I thought."

Jason's eyebrows are pinched just slightly together. Just enough to show the emotion, which means he wants Nightwing to see it, which means he's about to ask for those answers Nightwing, in the span of 20 seconds, still is not in possession of.

"What was the first building to get blown up? You never said."

"I-" He shakes his head, waving a hand vaguely, "Just a building. Couldn't recognize it after, I mean."

Jason slams his hands on the table, and Nightwing is terrifyingly aware of the rustle that springs through his entire body. He tenses, and they stare each other down.

"It was my apartment building," Nightwing finally admits, quietly, lips barely moving. How the hell did that work on him? _Him_? "Blockbuster rigged the place to blow along with all my safehouses in Blüdhaven."

Jason straightens, jaw locked before he says, "Stay as long as you need."

And then he's gone, and Nightwing rubs his head in exhaustion.

He stares at his hands, fingers twitching unnaturally. He hasn't been this jittery in years.

The more he thinks about it, the more he's convinced he needs a goddamn nap.

His shaky hands, his reaction to Jason- he telegraphed that move, eyebrows shoved together and muscles tensed up a second before he hit. He shouldn't have flinched, he's Nightwing goddammit!

His never-ending migraine and burning eyes. There's a haze around his vision and he feels disconnected. It's all familiar, but in a faraway way.

God fuck it all.

He needs Bruce.

Nightwing puts off talking to Bruce until absolutely necessary.

He and Red Hood head out the following night, an odd team-up that's likely only on the account that Jason probably wants to keep an eye on him. And, if he's being honest, it's kinda nice to have to company. And the backup.

If something like yesterday got even _close_ to happening again...

They dodge the other Bats expertly, and the night is successful. Nightwing joins Red Hood on a drug bust, and then they split when there's three hours left in their patrol.

Nightwing sees a red and yellow shape and makes his way around. His costume is more subtle than it used to be, but the blue stands out sharply in the night, nonetheless.

He and Red Hood meet up at home, Nightwing coming back late due to an unexpected - though, what crime _is_ expected?...Nevermind. - cry catching his attention. The woman was grateful, and so was Nightwing. Beating up rapists is his favourite hobby. He feels an odd sense of satisfaction fill him, after, and he breathes out. Close call.

He tosses his mask off, ruffling his hair from his face as he enters the apartment. For all that he expected, Jason's place is relatively...expensive. Especially in comparison to Nightwing's- well, now he's homeless, so that's a little unfair.

Then again, Jason took that Wayne-paid credit card with little care, and now he's kind of a mob boss, so that makes a bit more sense. Nightwing is an ex-cop runaway, and he _does_ kind of feel like that deadbeat Jason was going on about right about now.

"That was fun," Nightwing says, grabbing a glass and downing the drink in seconds.

"Don't get used to it," Jason replies, "I work alone."

"Y'know, that's what Bruce said to me," Nightwing says, then regrets it.

Jason glares, and Nightwing raises his hands in surrender.

"Sorry."

"You wanna go live on the streets, rich boy?" Ironic, all things given.

"No." Nightwing grumbles. Great, at the Red Hood's mercy. Nothing like it.

Jason orders take out, which is funny, considering the other night and the morning's meals, but even the leader of the mob needs pizza and wings, he supposes.

"Get breadsticks."

"No."

"Get breadsticks."

" _No_."

"But I _want_ breadsticks."

Jason throws his boot at Nightwing, who tenses and catches it over his shoulder. He stares at the thing for less than a moment before dropping it. Jason raises an eyebrow before muttering, " _One_ breadstick."

"I'on't think that's possible, Hoodie," he comments.

" _One_ breadstick," he repeats, now grinning, and Nightwing laughs.

"One breadstick," he agrees.

On the third night, Nightwing and Red Hood are basically just sharing base camp, as they head out for solo patrols.

Nightwing casually swings from building to building, savouring the wind in his hair. His burns are healing, and his bruises are fading, so he flips in the air, catching himself with a new line.

It's his own form of meditation.

Comm off, radio off; silence. Just him, the air and their nemesis: Gravity.

Nightwing is interrupted by another body joining him, and he glances at Robin vaguely, but doesn't make a move to leave. He's already been seen.

He follows Nightwing's lead, copying each move until he messes up a quintuple flip, letting out a shocked noise before laughing, catching himself. Nightwing's heart stops for a minute after, and they finish the routine with a leap onto another rooftop.

Nightwing is sitting down, playing with his escrima stick when Robin rolls to a stop in front of him.

"What're you doing in Gotham?" He asks.

Nightwing has thought about the answer to that question since the first night out, and has decided on the reasonable conclusion of, "Just wanted to get away for a bit."

"And you came to _Gotham_ and not- I don't know- the Bahamas?" Tim asks, plopping down beside him, and Nightwing shrugs.

"Gotham's familiar," he reasons.

Tim hums, nodding. After a few moments, he says, "Sorry. For falling, I mean. You looked spooked."

"It's fine," Nightwing shakes his head. It is, really. Can't fault someone for _falling_.

"B know you're here?" Tim asks, when he must realise that's all he'll get from him. Nightwing shakes his head. No point lying on that one.

"No. Just showed up, realised I'd go crazy without Nightwing, and here I am."

Tim nods, and leans into his shoulder. Nightwing feels his body seize up and forces himself calm - that's never happened before -, wrapping an arm around his brother.

"You okay?" Nightwing asks. He anticipated Tim to do a more...thorough investigation. Or insist that they team up for patrol. This is different.

"You seem off," Tim tells him, and Nightwing rolls his eyes under the mask. Of course. "Look like you need a hug." Then, "Are _you_ okay?"

"Fine, Timmers, really," He squeezes him against his chest for a second, then relaxes his arm. It's nice, but he's a bit uncomfortable, and he's not sure why.

He wasn't comfortable sleeping side-by-side with Jason, either, which he used to do strictly because it made _Jason_ uncomfortable. The roles seem switched, since his apartment blew up, and he can't pinpoint why.

Yeah, 34 deaths, 35 including Blockbuster, is a _lot_. Yeah, his home and everything he owns is _gone_. Yeah, his safehouses and everything in _those_ are all ash, too. Yeah, yeah, _yeah_ , he _gets_ _it_ \- but he's dealt with loss before, and maybe 34 is a bit high, and maybe he _could_ have stopped Tarantula, but he's never been like _this_ before. Not even after his parents' deaths, and that's a terrifying thought.

Was this really the thing that broke him?

Nightwing's been through a lot since he was a kid. He's seen the worst and battled the worst. He's lost his parents, his best friend and his brother. He's lost his father for an amount of time, too. He's lost Robin more than once, and has had to fight his brother. He was nearly killed by Jason. But this is what blew the house of cards over? _This_?

A building, 34 civilians and a notorious villain.

That's it.

That's his world, and he's Atlas, and he can't even shrug anymore. 

Nightwing and Robin _do_ finish patrol together, and he's faced with the inevitable question of, "Wanna come back with me? B won't mind, I'm sure."

Yeah, yeah he won't.

He'll mind the murder, though.

So he declines, but he's sure he's as much of a burden to Jason as he would be to Bruce.

Nightwing makes a decision that night, taking a left at Jason's apartment, instead.

It's high time he gets back on his feet, anyway.

Jason waits up for two hours before realising that Dick isn't coming h- back.

He tries his comm various times, but only gets silence. His tracker is offline, too, and that sets alarms off in his head. None of them turn off their comms. Not even Red Hood. With determination, though, he pulls his mask and helmet back on, heading out with a glare stronger than Clark's heat vision.

If that asshole thinks he can just _vanish_ without a word-

He's allowed to be a hypocrite. Shut up.

Red Hood searches the city well into 5 in the morning, which would be more impressive if it wasn't 4 when he started. He drags himself back to his place, turning the line to Batman on and sighing. Fuck.

It's not even that he doesn't _trust_ Nightwing. Nightwing sure as hell can take care of himself, but in his current state? 

Nightwing can get reckless, real easily, and if judging by that drug bust alone, he's more than likely to throw himself in harm's way. And as much as Jason hates it, there's one man that can find Nightwing no matter where he is.

"Red Hood?" It's Bruce's voice that answers, not Batman's, and he's not entirely surprised. He's probably working on a case. Well, he's about to get a new one.

He makes it quick with, "Nightwing's in town. Half of the 'Haven got blown up by Blockbuster and now he's dead." He then corrects, "Blockbuster's dead. Nightwing's fine, but his place was hit, and I lost him."

"Okay...I'll find him," Bruce says, concealing his worry easily, and Jason decides that maybe another detail would be good.

"He uh- he's not doing too good, B." He says, picking his words carefully, "There were casualties. He's going to get hurt on his own."

"I'll find him, Jason. Don't worry." Bruce reiterates, and Jason clicks the comm off without another word.

He stares at the discarded blanket still on his couch, placing his helmet down and rubbing his eyes. 

Dick's never been..twitchy.

Nightwing hears footsteps, but the room is empty. He turns, slowly, eyes checking each shadow. He's alone,

The footsteps have stopped, and he touches his head.

He heads to the bathroom, ignoring the steps and staring into his reflection.

He's pale. He wasn't pale before. He brushes his hand through his hair, feeling the tangles and tugging at them. It doesn't help. It used to help.

He tries to meet his own eyes but his vision is blurring, doubling and tripling and quadrupling and quintupling and he's flipping, spinning and falling he's-

Nightwing's head hits the wall, and then again, this time lower down. He catches himself with a hand, lowering himself onto the cold tile. It cools his burning skin, but he doesn't _remember_ taking off his Nightwing suit.

He stays there, body tingling and waves of dizziness tornado-ing around him, surrounding and claiming him. He hiccups, hand grabbing at his chest for a moment, only to relax for another one to escape.

He feels weighed down, heavy and paralyzed. He tries to move but his legs barely twitch. Twitch. He's like a spider, twitchy and shaky. He doesn't like spiders. He grimaces, hands ghosting down his body, a leg between his and then there's another weight on his hips.

His fingers flex, arms still useless but he's getting there.

It takes a few tries, but when he is able to move, he bolts. Darting out of the bathroom, out of the living room and standing at the closest window. It's opened, and he takes in the cool air like a drug.

The footsteps are back, but this time when he turns he sees his father.

"B?"

He feels like he's going to fall over, and he reaches out, but Bruce turns into Catalina, and he lets himself drop.

" _No_ ," he whispers, and it nearly clicks. Nearly. Nearly nearly nearly, except he's trembling, falling, dropping into an endless abyss, and he passes out before he can let himself think any more.

He doesn't _want_ to.

Nightwing takes out his confusing emotions on Two-Faces asshole thugs. He snaps a femur, kicks a shoulder out of its socket and throws a gun like an axe at a man's head.

He cracks his knuckles as GCPD collects Dent, and that's about when he realises his cover is blown. Not that he has much of a cover anymore, that is.

"Hey, B," He twirls as gracefully as his fatigued legs let him. He needs to eat, he realises, and kind of misses Jason's pancakes. They're not _Alfred's_ pancakes, but they're good. 

"Nightwing."

"Robin tattle?" He asks, approaching.

"Red Hood," he replies, and Nightwing mentally curses. Of course Jason would. He's been hovering over him since his panic attack. A simple _see ya_ probably would have prevented this, but he did need to see Bruce, anyway. 

"Ah." Is all he says.

When Batman doesn't prompt him further, turning away and striding towards the building closest, Nightwing's heart races, and he says, "School night, isn't it?"

Batman stops, and Nightwing relaxes.

"Ah, the Dynamic Duo...Feels nice, right?" Nightwing asks, flying through the air. He feels an odd sort of _ease_ at Bruce's side. Something he didn't even feel with Jason or Tim. He fears what will happen when Bruce finds out what he did.

Bruce grunts, and they land above the nearest gang activity.

Nightwing flips down without further ado, landing on the largest man's shoulders.

"Ah, shit guys, I left my book at home..." He says, grabbing the man's jacket and throwing him over his shoulder as he glides underneath his gut.

Batman throws a barrage of Batarangs, and they fall into a familiar rhythm.

After the men are tied up and either unconscious or too injured to want to be conscious, they head back off again.

The night is filled with broken arms and bruised eyes - not on their part -, and it's with an hour left that Batman suddenly stops.

Nightwing, against his better judgement, lands on the rooftop, approaching him with anxiety in his gut. They aren't too far from Happy Harbour, and Nightwing thinks that's on purpose. He should leave. He has to leave.

"Are you okay?" Bruce asks, turning to him.

"What?" He steps back. _Run_. "Yeah, 'course. What- what did Jason tell you? He's overreacting, I promise, I'm fine."

"He only told me the basics." Bruce says, which means he went digging, so he probably found Nightwing's mission report, and that means he knows too much. 

"Well, it's not a big deal. Jesus Christ, it's just a building- wasn't even a good apartment."

"Dick, that's not what I'm talking about." Oh. So he does know.

"So, what was tonight, then?" He asks, a bitter tone taking over that he's glad for, because his eyes hurt again, and he's not yet sure how to control that, "See if I'm really a killer? Because I didn't want Blockbuster to die, I didn't."

Bruce's gaze is penetrating, and his cowl is still up, so he can only imagine the glare hitting him. The judgement, the resentment.

"I _didn't_ , I-" He shakes his head, "I didn't!"

"Dick. Calm down."

It's an order, and Nightwing only realises how- _hysterical_ he sounds when he takes a breath.

"You didn't kill Blockbuster." Bruce says, and it catches him off-guard. Of course he did, he was there, he watched Tarantula aim that damn gun and he did nothing. He watched, with lucidity that was stronger than it is now, and that makes him bite his palm with his nails, but the glove stops him from getting the intended effect. Instead, Bruce sees the tick, and lowers himself down so they're eye-level, "What happened after he died?"

What?

Is _that_ what this is about? Seriously?

"You read the report," He snaps, face reddening.

"I did. But I want to hear it from you."

Fucking hell- he might die of embarrassment, and he just glares, stepping away but he nearly misses, slipping and if Robin's fall did scare him as much as Tim worried, the sound that escapes his lips isn't a gasp.

Bruce catches him with a strong hand, pulling him up and holding him against his chest.

Nightwing- god, _Nightwing_. He's been Nightwing since that night, hasn't he? Mask on or off, Jason or Tim or Bruce. He feels like if he takes a breath, lets himself be Dick Grayson for even a second he might break.

Because Dick Grayson was the one that went through trauma after trauma, wasn't he? Not Nightwing. Not Robin I. _Dick_.

His ears stop ringing enough for him to hear the words Bruce's rumbling chest is saying, and he only pulls away when he actually realises that he's being held.

"I'm fine." He insists, but Bruce just repeats himself.

"Breathe. Do you know where you are?"

"Of course I do," He snaps, but it comes out shaky, and he hiccups again. It hurts just as much as it did on the motel floor.

Bruce looks at him seriously for a second longer, and Ni- Dick lets out a slow, counted breath. After three, Bruce finally speaks.

"What happened after Blockbuster died?"

"Tarantula happened," he replies, simply. He'd rather not go into detail, and ghost hands grope him again, and he only realises that he's making a face when Bruce frowns.

"Talk to me, Dick. What did she do to you?"

" _To you_ \- that makes it sound like she- Bruce she didn't-" He splutters, and only when realisation slaps him upside the head does he gag, and he gags _hard_ , "Bruce you- you don't _know_ what happened I wasn't-" His throat clicks, and Bruce places a hand on his chest, but Dick flinches and pushes him off, eyes seeing triple and none of them are Batman. For a moment he's terrified- it's happening again, it's _happening again_ and he isn't even sure which time he's talking about anymore. Motel or rooftop?

"Dickie, breathe. It's me, it's Bruce," He tries, and Dick blinks rapidly. He's falling apart, broken and _bleeding_ on Alfred's goddamn carpet, he's gonna be scolded and grounded and that's never fun-

"Look at me, son, look at me,"

Rough hands grab his and he whines, pushing away but they keep roaming, searching and _touching_ , two and two and four and _eight_ \- stop, _stop_ , _stop_.

" _No_ ," he repeats, and his blood boils and freezes at the same time.

Oh.

No.

No, that's not right- that can't be right- he's- he'd never be- no.

 _Oh_ , god, no. _No_.

"If I- I would've- I could'a pushed her _off_ if I-," he shakes his head, can't barely speak and can't even tell who he's talking to. Bruce or some god; his judge, jury and executioner? " _No_."

"Breathe, Dickie, breathe," Bruce says at the same time Catalina purrs in his ear. His head slams backwards and he cries out, hard hitting him and he half expects to open his eyes to the dingy motel bathroom.

"Relax," They chorus, and he hits at whoever is on him, whoever is beside him, whoever is _touching him_.

He tries to scream but a thin hand is over his mouth and then he flips away, eyes darting to find her but he's alone. He's...he's alone.

He turns, looking up at Bruce, who stands further away than an arms length. He blinks, dizzy and confused- but he was- he thought he was- they were over here, right? 

"Are you with me?" Bruce asks, and Dick considers.

Well, he's...he's here. She's gone, hands and touches and whispers and horrible sensations all evapourated, but when he blinks he can't seem to get the world into focus, a daze surrounding Bruce and he feels a bit fuzzy.

"I don't know," he thinks, and only realises he's said it when Bruce frowns.

"That's okay," he tells him, but it doesn't really feel okay. "I know," Bruce says, and maybe he said that one, too.

"I'm sorry," Dick says. For Blockbuster, for Tarantula, for Jason and Tim and _this_..but Bruce just shakes his head and approaches, but Dick's body doesn't seem to be ready yet to listen to him. Bruce stops, so it's up to Dick to close the gap.

He wraps his arms around Bruce's chest, leaning into him and nearly forgetting where they are, who they are right now.

"Tired," Dick whispers, and Bruce nods, brushing his hair out of his face, and this time it does calm him. It's a silent request, and he adds a soft sound of _please_ when Bruce scratches his scalp, and he just nearly relaxes.

Nearly.


End file.
